


A Shit Shack,  A Tin of Cornbread, And A Southern Twang

by Yaggastories



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Road Trips, Slow Build, Soulmates, Southern AU, Stiles Stilinski's Name is Genim, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 22:56:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yaggastories/pseuds/Yaggastories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run from a past full of yellow bruises Genim hits the road with only a duffle bag and heads to New Orleans. His plans change slightly when his Jeep brakes down in a small town in Alabama. Genimm decides to purchase a foreclosed fixerupper cabin, a shack really, in the middle of the preserve. His life becomes normal, working 9-5 at a hole-in-the-wall diner with Erica, being fattened up with some cornbread, and going to the waterhole with his new friend Scott. This all changes when someone cocky enough to wear a leather jacket in the Alabama heat takes one whiff of him and harasses him relentlessly for a date, and for some reason, this attracts the attention of Mayor Argent.<br/>Aka the southern AU no one asked for inspired by TVD and Safe Haven</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shit Shack,  A Tin of Cornbread, And A Southern Twang

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning. Physical, and emotion abuse. I hope you like this it's my first story:)

Genim sits in his seat ramrod stiff inhaling air that seems to suffocate him more than it aids his lungs. Grunts and the clinking of forks fill the dining room before the rhythm is screwed when the sheriff tosses back a glass of whiskey like water.  
“You know why we are having steak kiddo” John asks while topping off his glass once more.  
“No.” Genim breathes directing his eyes to the picture beside his father’s head, “I’m sorry sir” he adds quickly ignoring the throbbing around his left eye.  
“We are having steak to celebrate that bitch leaving our house,” John chuckles slowly until he realizes his cup was all but empty except for the dregs, “now boy what do I do about the son of a, well you know what you mother is, she left behind.” Genim stays silent and pleads please let him pass out cold to the universe. He snaps out his thoughts when glass shatters just to the side of his head and he is dosed in Jack’s, his dad’s best friend, insides. “You listen here boy, if I see you when I wake up I will squeeze the life out of you through your scrawny neck like I should have done to your worthless mother” John slurs before jolting out of his seat off balance and stumbling down the hallway. Genim sits there for a moment not thinking, not hearing, and barely breathing. His doe eyes that are the color of his father’s favorite whiskey scan the room before landing on a photo of his family. Claudia, his mother, had clutched him like a lifeline that day at the beach and he started cursing in frustration. He yanks the frame from the wall and runs his thumb over his mother’s image all while his breathing spin rapidly in his heavy chest. Dropping the frame he walks up the stair in a military fashion in order to gather his measly belongings in his maroon dufflebag. Pale honey eyes scan his prison that dueled as his paradise as it laid bare in the stark moon life. He wipes the stray tear from his eyes clenching his fists and numbly dragging his feet to the blue jeep.  
The sun rises over the parking lot of The Bank of America and Genim wakes up with a crick in his neck. He panics for a moment remembering the previous night before he grates his teeth and heads into the bank.  
“Good morning Genim, how is the Sheriff doing?” the lady in a primly pressed primrose colored shirt greets him. He nods with an off movement like there was a gun to his temple  
“Good.”  
“Good. Im happy to hear that after Claudia leaving you two behind like that,” she smiles with a sympathetic glow in her squinty eyes. Genim shows his teeth backs and swallows down all the curses climbing up his throat like bile.  
“Yeah that was definitely hard on us.” He rasps looking at the pen chained to the granite surface.  
“I bet the Sheriff has always been a family man, hopefully that won’t ruin the towns barbeque for you boys. Maybe the Martins and Whittmore's will actually stand a chance this year without Claudia playing shortstop.” She simpers in a tone as overbearing as simple syrup.  
“Not a chance, I’ve been working on my curveball,” the pasty boy joked in a strained manner, “I'm actually here cancel my account.” he finishes not meeting her eye. She clicks her tongue and types rapidly on the keyboard. The sound of acrylic nails tapping set a soothing measure as she looks up at him, twisting her dull champagne colored lips up in a wide grin.  
“Alright then don’t spend it all in one place you don’t want to give your old man a heart attack.”  
"Yeah, wouldn't want that." Genim mutters snatching the envelope from her a little too roughly and proceeds to stalk out to his car. “Have a nice day Margret,” he tosses out over his shoulder. Slamming the door Genim presses shuffle, cranks the volume, and flips off that Whittmore kid on his way out. The engine screeches as he hits the highway and he starts to doubt that it was really worth all the black eyes his mother endured to keep it out of the junkyard. Regardless of the noise he twists the sticky knob of the radio up even higher and let’s Lennon’s voice dance along to his anxious fingers tapping damply along the steering wheel.  
The further he drives the more he can feel tension dripping off of him ounce by ounce like cherry cough syrup. He starts to hum the rhythmic harmony from one of Ed Sheeran’s newer songs before the noise catches in his throat, like molasses on what he imagines it would on an extra cold day in antarctica. Weaving through the traffic like a simple worker bee, eyes on the road and posture tense, he waits for a firm hand to correct him. When the biting grip doesn’t clamp on his shoulder, he absent mindedly begins to hum once more. By the time his gas tank only has a quarter tank left Genim is belting out along with All Time Low’s Damned If I Do Ya and going well over the speed limit. Twenty miles later he pulls off of I-40 and swerves into the nearest gas station. While he fills his car with gas, panic pumps along his spine. I am so stupid, Genim’s mind shouts, I should just turn around and beg him for forgiveness, he reasons with himself. No! Plan or no plan going back is not an option, the other half of his mind pitches in, I like my skinny neck unwrung, thank you very much, and like that the debate is over.  
Once the tank is full Genim pays the bill, and whips out his iPhone. He notices his line has already been cut, and he mentally sends a ‘Thank you Father’ out, making sure that it is oozing sarcasm. Sighing he walks to the cashier and forks over more money for an ol’ fashioned paper map. Being one for dramatics the bourbon eyed boy shuts his eyes, and lets his finger fall to the paper. Well then, he decides, I hope New Orleans isn’t too humid this time of year.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated as long as my soul will not be crushed


End file.
